


Demonstration

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little sticky fluff for a friend of mine. :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyofdragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofdragons/gifts).



 

Deadlock’s scowl deepened at the laughter—Axe and Wing grinning together, sharing a look that spoke of something way deeper than their little joke on him.

“One day, lad,” Axe said, “You’ll see the world in more than one spectrum.” He was grinning, but there was a soberness under the words.

“Nothing wrong with how I see the world,” Deadlock said, taking a long drink of his energon.  “Got me this far.”

“This far, but you could go so much further.” Wing, leaning close, intent.  His gold optics always did make Deadlock uncomfortable, as though they could pierce the heavy armor over his chassis.

“Fine where I am,” Deadlock said, pressing his mouth together. 

“Glad to hear it, lad. We’re glad to have you here, too.”  Axe, almost winking at him, at his discomfort as he felt his face plates heat.

Right. Enough of this scrap: Deadlock pushed to his feet, the bench scraping on the parquet floor of the small café. “Heading back,” he said, flatly. “And no,” he added a sneer, “I won’t talk to anyone.” Dai Atlas and his stupid ideas, his stupid rules.

He could feel—he didn’t need to look to see it, the look between Wing and Axe, sympathetic, almost wistful, as though he was tearing Wing away from something.

He didn’t want to. He just wanted to be alone, away from everyone picking at him, like they were trying to scrape away everything he knew was real about the world.

He didn’t get a choice: Wing followed him, trotting to catch up with Deadlock’s long, determined strides. Deadlock was not in the mood. “Don’t even trust me this much?” he snapped.

“I trust you, Drift,” Wing said. “I just want to spend time with you.”

“Really.” The word spat between them. 

“Is even that so hard to imagine?”  Wing slipped in front of Deadlock, up the stairs to his quarters. 

This. This is what he’d been trying to get away from. For a moment, Deadlock stopped, on the top step, fighting the boiling urge to turn on his heel, to race down the stairs, through the streets. Right. Running away. Cowardice. Weakness. It’s what they’d been talking about before, and he’d just prove it to Wing.  He sucked in a vent of air, pushing past the jet as he opened the door, bumping him with his spaulder.

“Drift,” Wing said, stopping him with a palm on his arm. 

“What.” He turned, his head revolving slowly, like a serpent, trying to hiss warning. 

But his warning shattered, abruptly, as the jet’s mouth met his, warm and fierce in a kiss.  Wing’s hands clutched at his arms, and Deadlock found himself off-balance, the jet’s fluid grace working against Deadlock, till he backpedaled into the wall, shoulders slamming hard into the ornate metal paneling. 

Deadlock felt the jet’s cockpit slide over his armor, his thumbs grazing under the spaulders, mouth pinning him back into the kiss. Surprise gave way to a simmering desire, and his own hands clutched around Wing’s body, fingers raking the silvery flightpanels, bending one leg to push his knee between the sleek thighs, the surprised sound surging to a growl.  He felt controlled, tamed by Wing, that the jet was using his desire against him, but he couldn’t stop, all the same, his hands, his body craving the elegant lines, the delirious fuzz of Wing’s EM field.

Wing pulled away, slowly, in a lip-biting kiss, optics smoldering golden just in front of Deadlock’s.  “I want you,” Wing said, making the admission sound like power.

 Deadlock didn’t mind, right now, letting his hands drop to the gimbals at the waist, tugging the jet’s pelvic armor against his, mouth curling into a smirk. “What are you waiting for?”

A shuddering sigh, Wing tipping his hips to gloss his pelvic frame over Deadlock’s.  “Because. I want to show you something.”

“Do you.”  He couldn’t hide the glint in his optics. 

Wing’s mouth curved into a grin, his hands sliding to catch Deadlock’s, slipping away with a deft twist of his hips. “Yes. This way.” He moved backward, with that faultless grace of his, leading into his quarters, into the main berthroom. 

Deadlock let himself be led: he approved where this was going, very much, and each step jarred that tingling tightness in his belly. Wing came to a stop by the berth, turning aside, and Deadlock took the opportunity to wrap his arms around him from the back, press his chassis against the Great Sword, the flightpanels, his palms around the jet’s taut belly. He could almost feel the jet’s valve, even through the dual-layer of metal, armor and cover, and he wanted nothing more than to sink his spike into Wing, make the jet cry his name. 

Wing melted back for a klik, into his touch, tipping his head back over his shoulder, against his own nacelle, whispering, “Let me take that off.”  No question what it meant, the Great Sword, the obstacle between them.  Deadlock liked where this was going, too, stepping back, letting his fingers hook parallel lines on the jet’s skirting panels as he did. He stood back, watching the jet move to the Sword’s rack, the sway of the skirting panels over the hips, promising so much. 

And he intended to take as much as he wanted. 

“Lie down,” Wing said, his voice husky, biting his own lip plate. 

Deadlock would rather Wing lie down, but right now, he wasn’t in the mood to argue, settling on his back, as Wing stepped up onto the berth. He could admire the view from here, very much, the undersides of Wing’s armor, the little flirting peeks of the skirting panels. 

Deadlock reached up, inviting the jet to lower himself down, one hand releasing his interface hatch, knuckles grazing his equipment covers, feeling the surge of his spike, wanting and needy.

Wing gave a grin, a little mischievous, lowering down between Deadlock’s thighs, not on them.  Deadlock gave a frown, trying to tug the jet forward, in a really, really unsubtle hint, but Wing shook his head, slithering  down between Deadlock’s thighs, catching his gaze as he lowered his mouth down, pressing his plush lip plates against the spike cover.

Deadlock gave a sharp sound, hips bucking up encouragingly against Wing’s mouth. 

There was a fuzz of sensation and sound, and then Wing shifted back, mouth sliding off the spike cover to circle the valve cover.

Deadlock went rigid, still, as though the heat of his desire squelched instantly. 

Wing paused, tilting his head to rest his cheek armor on Deadlock’s thigh, letting one thumb trace the line of the thigh joint, idly. “Let me?”

Deadlock frowned. “Don’t like it.”  He didn’t feel like explaining.  Decepticons…didn’t.  Not unless they had to.  And he had more than enough bad memories to last a lifetime.

“Drift. I won’t hurt you.”

His mouth twitched.  He knew. He didn’t want to admit that he knew, or that it mattered.  He didn’t say anything, but his hand released its hard clench on his hip. 

“If you tell me to stop, I will.” Wing took the tiny leverage, pushing into it, before he lowered his head back down, glossa tracing a slow spiral around the valve cover.  Deadlock fought something that felt like fear, pushing it aside with a hissing exhale, feeling the hot tingle of sensation trailing around Wing’s glossa.

He felt the cover click aside, almost as if it belonged to someone else. His entire body felt alien, strange, the responses distant and yet familiar, a slow trickle of arousal opening through him. Wing seemed to feel it, nuzzling against the valve, glossa probing in, seeking the sensitive cilia.

It felt like…nothing Deadlock had ever felt before: no rigid, hard spike intruding, just a soft, almost squirming feeling, seeking, not demanding.  He found himself nearly panting, alternating between his head raised, watching the lidded gold optics, that seemed almost blissful, or his head dropped back against the berth, unseeing at the ceiling, feeling the slide of the glossa, the satin of Wing’s audial flares against his thighs. 

He felt something swirl in his belly, a tingling warmth, and he found his hips rolling up into Wing’s mouth, not even knowing what he was doing, just wanting more, pushing close, almost blindly, needily. 

Deadlock’s breath was ragged, panting, when suddenly, Wing pulled away, and he writhed with frustration, hand raking along the metal berth, his head whipping forward.

“Why--?” He couldn’t make himself ask the rest of the question, trying to squeeze his thighs together around the jet’s frame, embarrassed at the cooling wetness on his valve.

“You want me to continue.”

Deadlock snarled, dropping back, one hand slapping the berth next to him, the other raking his face, torn between arousal and mortification.  “Didn’t tell you to stop.” 

Wing gave a soft chuckle, triumphant, teasing, and Deadlock would have hated it, if the resonance of the laugh hadn’t vibrated against the valve’s hot rim as Wing lowered his mouth again.

No delay this time, no light teasing: Wing’s glossa flicking against his valve. And Deadlock writhed openly, now, biting down against the moan, feeling that hard rush that had cruelly ebbed when Wing had pulled away, flood back through him, his entire body trembling, shuddering, his foot scraping down the berth, twitching and jumping. Until it crashed over him, white and electric, his mouth stretched, voice unleashing a burst of static.  The valve spasmed on air, almost needing something, anything, and Deadlock felt his hands cling to Wing’s shoulders, pinning him, holding onto him like a small point of stability.

His throat was raw, by the time the overload faded, his body feeling limp, wrung out, his knuckles locked into position, stiff as he forced them loose, his cooling systems still struggling with the heat, his circuitry feeling scoured, alive, from the cascade of charge. 

Wing waited a moment, and then with one last, almost fond lick at the valve’s rim, slithered forward, shoulders crawling up Deadlock’s still-shivering body, until he caught Deadlock’s exhausted mouth with his, one of the red flashes of his knee resting tantalizingly near the still-heated valve.  Deadlock dropped a hand on Wing’s back, exhausted, slack.

“What you wanted to show me.”  A question, but he was too tired, too wrung out, to inflect it.  Deadlock felt strangely soft, as though the hardest edges of him had been blunted, worn off somehow, and he tipped his chin up, deftly, to find Wing’s mouth.

Wing purred, nuzzling against him playfully. “Part of it.” 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Part of it.”

“Well,” Wing said, propping one forearm on Deadlock’s chassis, mouth tugging into a teasing smile. “Unless you’re…done.”

“Done.” 

“You know,” Wing said lightly—too lightly to be innocent, looking up, considering, “Stamina.  Maybe you’re too tired.”

“Stamina.” His engine rumbled at that. “Sounds like some kind of challenge.”

Wing laughed, tipping forward to kiss Deadlock’s chin. “Because it is?”

“Is it.”  Deadlock’s hands groped down the jet’s body, sliding under the hip skirting, feeling the warm electromagnetic fuzz between the panels and the jet’s aft.  “Might lose, you know.” More like…would lose.  Deadlock had let Wing have his fun: his turn, now. 

But Wing was a slippery little jet, wriggling somehow seductively into Deadlock’s hands and out of his embrace at the same time. “You haven’t heard the rules, though. It can’t be a challenge without rules.”

“Don’t need rules.” His voice was edging with frustration, his spike all too aware of how tantalizingly close Wing’s valve was to it.  He could almost feel the calipers snugging against him, the jet’s body arching and twisting under him, face blind with bliss.

“Hmm?” Wing paused, thinking, before answering, a glint of mischief in his optics. “All right, no rules.”  He moved quickly, using his skill and leverage, flipping Deadlock over onto his belly, landing his weight on Deadlock’s bucking, irate backplating. “I was going to let you take your turn, but…no rules.” 

“Cheating!” Deadlock gasped, the breath knocked out of him by the sudden landing, by the jet’s weight along his body, the greaves skimming his inner thighs. 

“No such thing as cheating. No rules, remember?” Wing nearly crowed in triumph, before pressing down against Deadlock’s back, wedging his face between the spaulder and Deadlock’s throat, nipping his way along the cables, just hard enough to hurt, to raise a shuddering protest from the Decepticon, who tried in vain to buck the other’s weight off him. 

If it had been mere mass, he might have done it: he’d fought his way free from Turmoil more than once. But Wing had a supple grace, a skill that surpassed anything Deadlock had ever seen, and so he merely rode out Deadlock’s twisting, shoving attempts to dislodge his weight, taking the opportunity to wriggle his hips lower, until his pelvic armor scraped the rim of the still-warm valve. 

Deadlock stiffened, twisting, flailing one arm behind him. 

Which Wing caught, deftly, one-handed, and stretched it out, letting Deadlock roll onto his side as Wing flicked his glossa into the small gap at Deadlock’s elbow. 

He jolted, feeling an electric tingle—not a tickle, but not pain but something between the two—light up his sensor net, radiating from that small touch.  Wing’s optics glowed down at him, even as the mouth slid down his forearm, to plant another lingering kiss in Deadlock’s palm. Deadlock twitched, confused, the sensors in his body fluttering and aroused, wanting more…something. He didn’t know what, and his spike still throbbed at him, wanting release, wanting to take Wing, hard and fast, metal slamming against metal, feeling the rubbery give of throat cables against his dentae.  But another part of him was lost before this, these delicate touches, this light flirtation, stirring awake parts of him that he’d thought were numb to touch, and even Wing’s gaze, on his face, felt like a gossamer touch of want. 

“Pleasure,” Wing whispered, his voice vibrating against Deadlock’s palm, “is in every part of you.”  He lifted his chassis off Deadlock’s hip, letting him roll, slowly, onto his back, keeping the hand, pressing it against his own chassis, letting Deadlock feel the thrum of his engines through the metal, the sure, strong pulse of his spark. Deadlock could feel his own spark, suddenly, pulsing faster, more intensely, racing with desire that felt trapped, bottled up, unable to find release.

Wing straddled him, thighs spread over his hips, and he could feel the jet’s weight, the silky planes of his armor, pinning him down, even as he reached back behind him, letting his fingers ghost over Deadlock’s spike cover. “Every part,” Wing repeated, solemnly, like it was the lesson, and Deadlock nodded, only half comprehending, his hands clutching at the silver thighs spread over him, feeling his palm tingle where Wing had kissed it as though the jet’s mouthplates had brought it to life, to feeling. 

His spike cover retracted, under the feathery touches, spike rigid with pressure, slick with need, into the hand that skillfully curled around it, the jet’s thumbpad curling against the underside, stroking it gently, fingertips reaching on the downstroke for the still-exposed valve. 

Deadlock couldn’t speak, and Wing didn’t seem inclined to want him to, so he just lay, quivering with a tense need, letting Wing stroke his spike, his own hand still pressed to the jet’s chassis, until he reached forward, hooking Wing’s shoulder, tugging the jet down to crush their mouths together, press their bodies together, feeling Wing alive and vivid and…and…beautiful against him, on top of him, under his hands, something that shouldn’t be his, but was, something he should have to snatch, to take, but was freely offered. 

Wing, always one step ahead, released his own equipment, rocking back just a bit from the fierce kiss, his valve finding, faultlessly, the slick hard spike, sliding himself down onto it.  And Deadlock felt—like he’d fantasized about—the calipers cinching down around him, tight and arousing, but he didn’t feel the need to take, any more, to pin Wing down and force him, but to surrender, to let it happen, let the jet ride his body, his desire, to a climax more pure than he could imagine.

**Author's Note:**

> tbc. :D


End file.
